The Ship of Brides

The money was counted, pushed across the table. The cap was replaced on the mechanic’s head and he walked off, a little pink, counting the notes between keen fingers.

‘Off caps!’

‘Nicol.’

Lost in the gentle rhythm of the line that snaked along what remained of the hangar deck, he heard his name spoken twice before he registered it. He was bleary from another night of lost sleep and deep in unwelcome thoughts.

Tims, a broad, taut figure, stood beside him, smoking, for several seconds before he spoke again. Nicol knew him as a bluff man, one of those larger-than-life sorts who liked to be thought of as a ‘mess character’. There were rumours that he was involved in money-lending, and those who fell foul of him often became terribly accident prone. Nicol had tended instinctively to steer clear of him, recognising that with someone like Tims it was often better not to get too close or, indeed, know too much. One neither wanted to make an enemy of him nor find oneself indebted to him. These men, with their strange charisma, their intricately built power bases, were to be found on every ship. It was, he supposed, inevitable in a self-contained world that relied on silence and hierarchy.

Now, however, Tims was subdued; when he spoke, his words were careful and considered. There might be a bit of bad blood between the seamen and the stokers, he said. There had been an incident with a woman a couple of nights ago. He had shaken his head as he said this, as if even he could not believe the foolishness of the Aussie girls. Things, he said, had got a little out of hand.

Such a bald admission was out of character. And at first Nicol wondered if he was asking him obliquely to make an arrest. But before he had a chance to ask why this should be of any more than passing interest to him, Tims spoke again: ‘It’s your lot who were involved.’

Your lot. What a strange, almost familial intimacy the phrase suggested. Nicol had felt a flush of incomprehension that the reserved bride who had chatted with him that evening might have been the cause of some kind of drunken fracas. That was women for you, he thought bitterly. Unable to stay faithful – sober, even – for a six-week voyage.

Then Tims, a bloodsoaked bandage visible round his knuckles, explained further. It had not been the tall girl, Frances, but the young silly one Nicol had spoken to on his first watch. The one who was always giggling. Jean.

He was somehow less shocked and, although disturbed by what he heard, felt something that might have been relief. Frances hadn’t seemed the type. Too awkward in company. Too self-conscious. He supposed he wanted to believe that there were still good women out there. Women who knew how to behave.

Women who understood the notion of loyalty.

‘I need you to do us a favour, Marine. I can’t go along there, obviously.’ Here Tims jerked a thumb towards the cabins. ‘Just make sure Maggie’s all right, will you? The one who’s expecting. She’s a nice girl, and she was a bit shocked. What with her condition and all . . . Well, I don’t like to think of her being troubled.’

‘She’ll go to the sick bay if she’s shook up, surely.’

Tims grimaced. ‘To see that idiot? He’s been drunk as a skunk every day he’s been on board so far. I wouldn’t trust him with a splinter.’ Tims stubbed out his cigarette. ‘No. I think it would be a good idea if you kept an eye on her. And if anyone says anything, the girls were in their bunks all night. Right?’

It was not the norm for a marine to be addressed in such a way by a stoker. And something in Tims’s tone might normally have caused Nicol to bristle. But he suspected this unusual confidence was prompted by chivalry, perhaps even genuine concern, and he let it go. ‘No problem,’ he said.

Now he thought back, there had been some subtle change in atmosphere that evening. From the other side of the door he had heard none of the usual intermittent conversation, but instead urgent whispering. At one point, there had been the sound of crying, a brief argument. The tall girl had been out three times ‘for water’ and barely muttered a hello. He had assumed it was one of those bouts of feminine hysteria. They had been warned that such things could happen once they were on board, especially with the women unused to living at close quarters.

‘I tell you,’ Tims was saying, ‘Thompson’s lucky I didn’t get to that spanner first.’

‘Spanner?’ He glanced behind him.

‘One of the girls had it. The tall one. By all accounts it was her who got the bastard off. Gave him a good crack on the shoulder, then tried to stove his head in for good measure.’ Tims laughed humourlessly. ‘You’ve got to hand it to these Aussie girls, they’re not short of balls. You couldn’t imagine an English girl doing the same, could you?’ He took a long drag of his cigarette. ‘Then again, I suppose you wouldn’t get an English girl heading below decks with a load of foreign johnnies.’

‘Don’t be too sure,’ muttered Nicol, and regretted it.

‘Anyway, I’m going to lie low for a bit. The mess is closed to visitors for a while. But tell Mags I’m sorry. If I’d got to her little mate first . . . well, it wouldn’t have happened.’

‘Where’s Thompson?’ said Nicol. ‘In case they ask. Is he in custody?’

Tims shook his head.

‘Shouldn’t we be taking him in?’

‘Think about it, Nicol. If we haul him in for what he’s done, the girl gets done too, right? The WSO who came down didn’t have a clue, only got Jean’s name. But little Jean’s not going to tell the truth about what went on. Not if she wants to get to Blighty and her old man without a fuss, which I’m pretty sure she does.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘’Sides, I’m sure you don’t want a fuss made about your girls getting into trouble. Can’t look good on you, can it? Them all being down in the engine rooms that close to the start of your watch . . .’ He kept his voice soft, at odds with the implied threat in his words. ‘I’m just letting you know, out of courtesy, like, that me and the boys will deal with Thompson and his shabby little mate our way. Even if we have to wait till we’re ashore.’

‘It’ll get out,’ said Nicol. ‘You know it will.’

Tims glanced behind him at the long queue. When he turned back, his eyes held something that made Nicol feel vague pity for the unknown offender. ‘Not if everyone keeps their gobs shut it won’t.’

Margaret leant over the rail as far as her belly would allow, and hauled up the wicker basket, murmuring to herself as it bumped off the sides of the ship. Below her, in the glinting waters, lithe brown boys dived over the sides of their small craft for coins that the sailors threw from the deck. Alongside them slim canoes, hollowed from single tree-trunks, wobbled under the movements of thin, tanned men holding armfuls of trinkets. The port of Colombo, Ceylon, shimmered in the heat, punctuated by the occasional tall building and set behind with dense, dark forest.

There had been several reported cases of smallpox and it had been announced earlier that it was not considered wise for the women to go ashore. Here, anchored in the clear blue waters several hundred feet from shore, was as close as they were going to get to Ceylon.

Margaret, who had been desperate to leave the ship, who had spent days anticipating the feel of solid earth under her feet, had been furious. ‘Your man at the PX says they’re still going to allow the men ashore so it’s okay for us to catch the bloody smallpox off our own.’ She had almost wept with the unfairness of it.

‘I suppose it’s because the men are inoculated,’ said Frances. Margaret chose not to hear her.

Perhaps in consolation, one of the storemen had lent them a cable to which he had attached a basket. They were to lower it and pull it up when it was full, so they could examine the goods at their leisure. He had pointed out two other warships anchored in the harbour, where she could see clusters of little boats involved in the same activity. ‘French and American. You’ll find most of the traders end up round the Americans.’ He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, grinning and raising an eyebrow. ‘If you can swing your basket that far you might get yourself some new stockings.’

‘This batch looks good, girls. Get your purses ready.’

Margaret, puffing with exertion, brought the basket carefully over the rail, then placed it on the floor of the gun turret where they were seated. She rummaged through, holding up beads, strings of shell and coral that rippled through her fingers. ‘Mother-of-pearl necklace, anyone? Better than that thing with all the chicken rings, eh, Jean?’ Jean raised a thin smile. She had been silent all morning. Before the ‘wakey-wakey’ call, Margaret had heard her exchanging whispered words with Frances. Then they had disappeared to the bathroom for some time. Frances had taken her medical kit. No one had talked of what might have taken place, and Margaret hadn’t liked to ask, wasn’t sure even of the question. But now, pale and subdued, looking frighteningly young, Jean sat mutely between them. When she walked, she did so gingerly.

‘Look, Jean. This would go well with your blue dress. See how the mother-of-pearl catches the light.’

‘Nice,’ said Jean. She lit another cigarette, her shoulders hunched around her ears as if she were cold, despite the heat.

‘We should get something for poor old Avice. Might make her feel better.’

She heard her voice, determinedly cheerful, and in the answering silence the suggestion that Frances might not want Avice to feel better.

There had been a terrible argument between the two after they had returned to the cabin the previous night. Frances, her normal reserve dissolved, had screamed at Avice that she was selfish, a traitor, merely concerned with saving her own skin. Avice, flushed with guilt, had retorted that she couldn’t see why she should jeopardise her future because Jean had the morals of an alleycat. They would have found out her name in the end. Her own temper had been sharpened because her friend Irene had vanished. It had been all Margaret could do to stop the pair coming to blows. The following morning, when Avice had left the cabin, the others had assumed they would probably not see her again that day.

The voices of the traders floated up to them: ‘Mrs Melbourne! Mrs Sydney!’ They gestured prices with their fingers. In the midst of their boats, a small boy’s head broke through the shining surface of the water. He was grinning as he held aloft something metallic. Then he looked closely at it and his face darkened. He hurled it at the ship. It pinged off the side like a bullet.

‘What’s that all about?’ said Margaret, peering down.

‘The sailors throw them old nuts and dowels. They let them dive thinking they’re coins,’ said Frances. ‘Their idea of fun.’ She stopped. They had new views on sailors’ ideas of fun.

But Jean didn’t appear to have heard. She had been examining a little pearl necklace, and now stuffed it into her pocket.

‘Want me to get that for you?’ said Margaret. ‘I don’t mind if you forgot your purse.’

Jean’s eyes were still pink-rimmed. ‘Nah,’ she said. ‘I’m not paying. More fool them for sending it up.’

There was a brief silence. Then, wordlessly, Margaret got up, removed a few coins from her purse and lowered them, with the remaining trinkets, to the boat below. Then, perhaps to comfort herself as much as the younger girl, she said to Jean, ‘Did I ever tell you how Joe proposed to me?’

She sat down, nudged her. ‘This’ll make you laugh. He’d already decided he wanted to ask me. He’d got Dad’s permission. And he’d bought a ring. Oh, I’m not wearing it now,’ she explained. ‘Fingers are too swollen. Anyway, he decides Wednesday’s the day – it’s his last but one day before the end of his shore leave, and he turns up, nervous, his boots shining like mirrors and his hair slicked. He’s got it all planned in his head. He’s going to go down on one knee and make the one romantic gesture of his life.’